Mowbray started.—“I have indeed a sister, my lord; but I can conceive no case in which her name can enter with propriety into our present discussion.”
“Again in the menacing mood!” said Lord Etherington, in his former tone; “now, here is a pretty fellow—he would first cut my throat for having won a thousand pounds from me, and then for offering to make his sister a countess!”
“A countess, my lord?” said Mowbray; “you are but jesting—you have never even seen Clara Mowbray.”
“Perhaps not—but what then?—I may have seen her picture, as Puff says in the Critic, or fallen in love with her from rumour—or, to save farther suppositions, as I see they render you impatient, I may be satisfied with knowing that she is a beautiful and accomplished young lady, with a large fortune.”
“What fortune do you mean, my lord?” said Mowbray, recollecting with alarm some claims, which, according to Meiklewham's view of the subject, his sister might form upon his property.—“What estate?—there is nothing belongs to our family, save these lands of St. Ronan's, or what is left of them; and of these I am, my lord, an undoubted heir of entail in possession.”
“Be it so,” said the Earl, “for I have no claim on your mountain realms here, which are, doubtless,
——‘renown'd of old
For knights, and squires, and barons bold;’
my views respect a much richer, though less romantic domain—a large manor, hight Nettlewood. House old, but standing in the midst of such glorious oaks—three thousand acres of land, arable, pasture, and woodland, exclusive of the two closes, occupied by Widow Hodge and Goodman Trampclod—manorial rights—mines and minerals—and the devil knows how many good things besides, all lying in the vale of Bever.”
“And what has my sister to do with all this?” asked Mowbray, in great surprise.